


Integrative Negotiations

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)



Series: How To Reconcile [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: ...Can you imagine?, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forgiveness..., Reconciliation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 12:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou
Summary: Second in the How to Reconcile series. Takes place directly after part 1.Picks up where part 1 left off as Matt and Karen have their conversation. A very long conversation in which Matt supplies his backstory, explains Elektra and the mess he made during the Punisher trial, and apologizes. Again. Progress is made and forward motion begins toward a new relationship as Karen processes and forgives him. Also Karen gets to see the suit up close. She's kind of a fan.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait, folks. This one gave me fits and turned into a bit of an undertaking. My muse went silent for a while there, and I went through a lot of different versions because I couldn't get everything to come out quite the right way. I am still a little nervous about this version because I fear it's still kinda clunky or that it might not progress as logically as I imagined. But I'm mostly happy with it. 
> 
> Maybe part of the problem is that it's just so looong. Sorry about that. They both had a lot to say, though, and I already cut a considerable amount of dialogue that I am hoping to transform into another good conversation or two between them as they work through things. 
> 
> Lastly, I hope I don't anger or offend any Matt X Elektra shippers out there. This is just my interpretation, how I imagine Matt's internal dialogue and why he swung from extremes like a pendulum during this season. Feel free to agree to disagree. Anyway, I hope it's not terrible. I'm still open to constructive criticism, btw. Thanks for reading.

As he walks hand-in-hand with Karen down the snow covered streets to his apartment, observing the gentle hush that has fallen with the snow, Matt is turning into a nervous wreck with astonishing speed. He doesn't think he's ever been this anxious. Not in the courtroom. Not in law school. Not even when taking the bar exam. Hell, even training with Stick as a child had been less terrifying than this. And honestly, not even his _other_ self has ever been this afraid.

Not when facing Nobu in little more than some black long underwear. Not when Frank had him chained on a rooftop or held a gun to his head. Not even when Elektra held a blade to his throat and seemed for a brief moment to be seriously considering whether or not she'd slit it. Those were merely times he worried for his life. But somehow those experiences all seem hollow in comparison to what he's feeling now.

Because in all of his life, with all the things he's done, all he's seen, he has learned a thing or two about fear. He knows it intimately. And he knows which fears are the worst, the most debilitating and horrifying. And, actually, death is not at the top of that list. It's relatively far down the list, in fact. Because it's inevitable, and when it happens, it will happen. Done. End of story. Out of his control. Nothing to worry about in the aftermath. Sure, he has a lot of things he'd like to accomplish first. No, he has no plans to die any time soon. Yes, he will do all he can to avoid it, but it doesn't keep him up at night worrying about when or how his number will be up.

_I’m not afraid of dying._

But like Father Lantom had said…

_Lot of people aren’t, comes right down to it. It’s living scares the holy crap out of them._

Perhaps he’s not so different from most people in this way. Because _this_ fear, the one currently coursing through his veins in place of his blood and making him doubt himself more than he ever has before- it is a fear of living. In a way. And in any case, it’s huge- though that word seems frustratingly small and ineffective at communicating the enormity of it. Because this fear… it's nebulous and ineffable and all-consuming, bigger than he can fathom or explain. It's the fear that sits heavy in his chest and makes it hard to breathe at night when he has no company but his own thoughts and regrets. The fear that makes him desperate, and often downright foolish in his attempts to save and protect the people he holds most dear. The fear that makes him sick when he thinks about all of the mistakes he's made, all the lies he has told- well intentioned or not.

It isn't the fear of death. No, it’s nothing so simple. This fear… it's that of loss. And the fear of having to live in spite of that loss. The fear that he will lose all that's he's worked so hard to achieve. Fear that all his suffering will have been for nothing. Fear that he will finally, once and for all, lose everyone he's been fighting so hard to protect. And worst of all, it's the fear that he deserves all of it and always has. Fear that he will never be able to redeem himself or forgive himself. That he is destined for a life of painful solitude and bitter self-loathing instead of the hopeful future that he had once so cavalierly taken for granted.

_Not everyone deserves a happy ending._

He had never stopped to consider the fact that maybe the statement pertained to him, but maybe a part of him had always known, always feared that it did.

No, the thought of dying doesn't scare him. But living alone with nothing but his secrets and suffering and regrets? _That_ is the stuff of his nightmares.

These thoughts are plaguing him as he leads Karen up the stairs to his apartment. He has to tamp down on an increasingly intense urge to bolt with each step that brings him closer. He's never wanted so badly to be accepted nor been so unsure of whether or not he would be. He's about to make himself more open, more vulnerable than he's ever been, and though she has no martial arts or weapons training (...at least he doesn't think she does) she has the power to destroy him with only a few words. And the ridiculous part is that he doesn't even think she understands the power she wields.

But then again, maybe she does.

Because when they reach his door and she passes him while he awkwardly holds it open for her, in a manner less composed than he's probably ever been around her, she touches his shoulder. And in that moment something passes between them. It's in the way that she places her hand on his arm; he thinks he feels a kind of acknowledgement there. It's subtle but it speaks volumes to him by way of the intentional weight and solidity of her hand curling around his bicep that holds there for several moments, long enough to know it's not a casual or accidental touch, and the way that she lifts her head, presumably to look at his expression. If he were sighted, he would see the spark of recognition in her eyes and the briefest of smiles on her face. But sighted or not, he thinks he knows what she's trying to communicate.

So maybe, somehow, she does understand. As he considers this possibility, he can't decide if it's better that she knows or not. But as she moves past him and crosses the threshold into his apartment, he knows that it's too late to back out now. His mind is a mess of prayers and pleas for help as he shuts the door and prepares to have a conversation he once thought to be impossible.

She moves into the living room area after stepping out of her coat and he follows behind her a moment later. She takes a seat on the couch and he pauses for a few seconds on his walk to the kitchen to take in the sensation of it, of her so easily fitting into his space. He is struck by the way his heart squeezes at the thought. When he catches his breath, he continues on his way to the kitchen, placing his glasses and the bag containing his mask on the dining table as he passes it. His heart begins to hammer in his chest, the reality of the situation starting to settle between them, when he has an idea about what might make it more tolerable. He opens the fridge.

“Do you, uh, want anything? Water? Beer?...” He hesitates, as though trying to decide whether or not to continue. “...Something stronger?” It's almost an afterthought, almost a joke, but there's a thread of something bordering on desperation in his tone that he hopes she doesn't notice.

If she does, she doesn't show it. She even has the grace to play along with his joke. “That bad already, huh?”

He actually stammers, voice wavering more than she can ever remember hearing. “W-well, uh, maybe I’m just trying to be a good host and - uh, preparing for the worst at the same time.”

She turns to face him over the back of the couch, reassuring him with a soft and soothing voice. “Matt, I’m already here. I’m willing to listen. I can't promise that I won't get angry, but I want the truth. That's it. So take a breath, and give us both some credit- I think we’ve already survived the worst.”

He is silent for a moment, looking down and turning the idea over in his head. He finally gives a slight nod and a huff of a laugh. “Fair enough. But you still didn't answer me.”

She smirks at him. “Bring both, then.”

He obeys, going to get glasses and the bottle of whiskey in addition to the beer he retrieves from the fridge. He walks over and sets them all on the coffee table, proceeding to pour a finger of whiskey in a glass. He reaches out to hand the glass to her, but she chuckles and reaches for the beer instead. He tilts his head, looking at her with a curious expression on his face.

“Oh, that’s for you. I think you need it more than I do at this point.”

He swallows against the fact that she's right and he's practically vibrating with nerves.

“Are you suggesting that I need some liquid courage, Ms. Page?” He tries to make it sound playful, but it falls flat, sounding lame to his ears.

“Maybe. I just thought it might take the edge off. It couldn't hurt- as long as you're still honest with me, that is.”

“This will do nothing but enhance that, I think.” There is a note of humor in his tone finally, and they smile together at the sound of it.

“Then drink up, Mr. Murdock. You've got some explaining to do.”

He scoffs as he takes the bottle and pours himself a double… and then, after a moment of hesitation, a triple. She raises her eyebrows at that though she doesn't make a comment. He sets the bottle down and moves to sit in one of the chairs across from where she sits on the couch.

She waits patiently as he takes a generous sip, watching his throat work as he swallows, the slight wince he makes at the burn of it going down.

He leans back, resting the glass on top of his right knee, his left arm stretched out along the arm of the chair. He finds himself flexing his hand and fingers into a fist reflexively as he tries to decide where to begin.

She kicks off her shoes and pulls her feet up onto the couch as she settles further into the cushions. She means it as a show of her commitment to this endeavor- that she is ready to listen and that she isn't waiting to get up and walk out at the first difficult truth.

He notices. It sends a faint tendril of hope and relief through his chest that winds itself around his heart and holds there, helping to ease the intensity of his anxiety. He closes his eyes, saying a quick and silent prayer of thanks that she is giving him this chance and adds a plea that he won't fuck it up this time.

Sighing, he fixes his gaze in the general vicinity of her on the couch.

“Where would you like me to start?”

She takes a drink from her beer and then shrugs. “How about the beginning?”

He gives a subtle shake of his head and a low laugh at that. “I can't help feeling that this suddenly seems like an interview. I keep expecting you to pull out a recorder and a note pad. That is what you're doing these days, isn't it?”

A blush rises on her cheeks and he holds back a smirk as he feels the heat of it on her skin.

“Well, yeah. But I'm not here to work. All of this is completely off the record. It's just for me, just because I want to hear your side of the story.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose at that. “I hope you don't change your mind about that later-”

“Matt, how many times do I have to tell you? I chose to come. I want to know. I might get angry, but I'm sure we can handle it. We’re adults. Just give me a chance, here.” Her tone has turned a little sharper, notes of annoyance and frustration coming through, though the strongest tone is one of pleading.

He stares in her direction for a moment, head cocked, listening- to her heartbeat, her breathing, her voice. She seems anxious with anticipation, heart beating a little faster than usual but relatively calm otherwise. She's being honest and seems as ready as she can be in the situation. He takes a generous drink, swallows audibly and taps his fingers against the rim of his glass a few times before he starts.

“Do you remember what I told you about losing my sight?”

His vacant gaze is angled in the direction of the far side of the couch as he reminisces about the conversation they had when she had stayed with him over a year and a half ago. She turns her head to track his gaze and must remember as well, since she nods and hums in agreement, a weak smile on her face.

“I was nine. I was on the street outside of our apartment. I don't remember what I was doing. Playing some game with the neighborhood kids probably. But then I remember hearing a crash. I turned to see a collision happening- a semi that had lost control and collided with a car. I remember looking up and it was like time stopped for a moment as I saw that the truck was threatening to topple over and a man was standing in the way, oblivious. Suddenly I was running to him, pushing him clear before he could get hurt, but it left me right in the path of the crash when it fell. It was over before I knew what was happening. I came to, lying on my back, staring up at the sky with a terrible pain in my eyes. Apparently, the truck had been carrying some kind of chemicals, and some of them spilled on my face. My dad got home just then and he rushed to my side as I helplessly watched my vision turned cloudy, then black.”

He pauses for another drink, to see if she will respond, but just as he suspects, she doesn't. He doesn't blame her. What is there to say that wouldn't be trite or pitying? He appreciates her choice to stay silent.

“As I healed, I recovered some of my sight. But it’s very limited. Where I used to be able to see everything- all the vivid colors of the world around me, all the activity… now it's a more of a monochromatic, gauzy haze. I can detect some movement, but it's mostly just fluid and nebulous shapes. And it's all shades of red … like a world on fire.”

Her eyebrows furrow in an intense look of confusion. “But, if that’s all you can see, how do you… how can you be Daredevil?”

He has taken another drink and is bringing the glass back to his knee as she asks. He gives her a slight shrug and a mirthless smile. “An unforeseen consequence of the accident was that all my other senses were significantly enhanced. I didn't understand it at first, when I woke up in the hospital. I thought that maybe I was going crazy, because no one seemed to believe me or understand what I was experiencing. But I eventually realized what it was- the extra sensory data that I was picking up, the extent to which I could suddenly perceive things.”

She appears intrigued at this, swinging her feet down to the floor and leaning towards him, her elbows on her knees.

“What kinds of things?”

He chuckles flatly. “Basically everything. I can just… feel things. Ridiculous things- like balance and direction- via the air through pressure variations, temperature fluctuations, micro changes in air density. All of it helps me know where things are and when they move. I can hear soft and muted sounds from far away- heartbeats, ambient environmental sounds that most people take for granted, subtle pitch variations other people can't hear. I can smell and taste very well- everything from the individual ingredients in someone's shampoo from across the room to the tang of blood in the air from an open wound. All of it works together to create a kind of impressionistic painting of what I perceive. It helps me to have a different kind of sight. And it allows me to… do what I do.”

She blinks a few times at this incredible revelation, stunned into silence for several moments. “Wow. Okay, that's… wow. We’re going to have to come back that. Once I have wrapped my brain around it. Which might take a minute.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that as she sits quietly for few moments and attempts to collect her thoughts.

“Okay, so super senses. Sure. Fine. That makes about as much sense as anything, I guess. But what about the ninja skills? Where did you learn to fight like that? Was it your dad? I thought I once heard you say he was a boxer-”

He knows that she's just trying to put everything together in her head with the bits of information that she has, but she unintentionally hits a sore spot with that question. It's one that continues to bother him, nagging at the edges of his consciousness until he is distracted by some other concern, at which time it worms its way to the forefront of his mind, creating a crisis of conscience which infuriates him as much as it threatens to incapacitate him with indecision before he can force it back down to be dealt with later (always later). It's like a scab that just won't heal right, a splinter that continues to fester the longer that he waits to address it. Though if there ever was a time to do so, this is definitely not it. He grapples with all of these thoughts and feelings in his chest, trying to contain them for now, and in his struggle, he cuts her off with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

“ **No.** It didn't come from my dad. He was a boxer but he refused to teach me how to fight. He didn't want me to be like him in that way, didn't want me to use my fists to get ahead in the world. He always said he wanted me to use my head. Honestly, he was the one that pushed me to become a lawyer.” His voice belies the manufactured calm of his expression, losing its edge but turning hollow by the end. He takes another drink and goes back to staring in the direction of the window.

She notices the way his hackles have risen, so she tries to be a little more gentle as she asks him to continue. “So, if it wasn't your dad, who was it?”

His mouth twitches into somewhat of a scowl without his consent and he rubs a hand over his face before he turns to face her again. “His name is Stick. You met him, actually- that night you came here looking for me and-”

“Saw that woman in your bed?”

It's out of her mouth before she has the chance to think about whether or not that was the right thing to say, or the right time to say it. She takes a healthy swig of her beer to give herself something to do other than look at him, and to distract herself from the heat of the blush that she feels rising up her cheeks at the shame she feels. It suddenly occurs to her, with the knowledge she now has about his _abilities,_  that he can probably tell, and that makes it ten times worse.

He hangs his head in his own shame, hand flexing into a white-knuckled fist. He has to consciously control his breathing to prevent any shaking in voice as he responds. “Yes.”

She attempts to school her expression into something more blank, her voice into a more neutral and even tone this time. “Who was she?”

He's not quite sure he can trust his senses in this moment due to the feedback from his own internal processes that is over-clocking his brain, in addition to the data he's processing from her, but a part of him _really_ wants to. Because it almost sounds like there was some defensiveness in her tone, more than just pure anger. And though he so wants that to be true because of what he hopes it indicates about her feelings and the future of their relationship (in whatever form it may take), he is struggling very hard not to get his hopes up too soon. He takes a sip of whiskey and pushes that thought away for the time being.

“I’ll, uh, get to that. But first- Stick.” He is silent for a moment, grounding himself and breathing as he prepares to bare parts of himself to her which he has never shared with anyone. He takes another drink and hopes it will be enough to keep him from being swallowed up in his own panic.

“He came to the orphanage where I was taken after my father died. I had never met him before, so I was a little surprised when he showed up one day saying he wanted to help me adjust to life on my own and to train me to control my _gifts._ He seemed like a godsend, especially considering that he was blind too and knew the challenges I was up against, so I accepted his offer. But I learned soon after that he had other intentions behind helping me.”

She cocks an eyebrow at this. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m still not really sure how he knew about me or my… gifts, but once I explained the extent of them, he taught me how to control them, how to read my environment and how to filter the input so that I could function. But not long after that, he began to show me how to use them in combat. He trained me in several different martial arts schools, and taught me how to use my senses to enhance what I had learned- how to track an opponent’s movements, their heartbeat, their weapons- and how to use that information to counteract them in a way that would be unexpected.”

She blinks at him, furrowing her eyebrows as she processes. “Okay, that answers the ‘how’. But what about the ‘why’? _Why_ train a ten year old to fight like that?”

He blows out a deep sigh and takes another generous sip of whiskey in attempt to buy himself some time, to find the right words. But in so doing, he quickly realizes that there is no way to tell her the truth and not sound ridiculous doing so because the truth itself is so unbelievable. So he decides he might as well just give her the facts with no sugar coating.

“Stick claims to be a member of the Chaste- a group of warriors which was created to protect the world from an ancient Japanese organization called _Yaminote,_ or the Hand. It’s a religious cult of ninjas, for lack of better words, and they are hell bent on finding something called the Black Sky. The legends said that the Black Sky would be the ultimate weapon- someone born for the sole purpose of creating unfathomable destruction who would be venerated as a god and wielded as the tip of the spear of the Hand, leading them on a mission to eliminate any and all resistance on their quest for domination.”

She squints at him, a look equal parts disgust and incredulity on her face. Though he can't see it, he can hear it in her voice when she speaks. “And he told you all this when you were ten in order to justify turning a child into a soldier for some B-movie plot of a mythical feud between these ‘organizations’?”

He smiles a small, tight smile, eternally awed by her capacity for outrage at injustice and the way that it seems to set her very soul aflame with light and energy. “No, he gave me the condensed version then- just saying that one day there would be a war and he needed to have warriors who would be ready to fight when the time came. I bought it for a while because he was all the family that I had, and he had helped me with a lot in terms of controlling my senses. But a little while later we had a falling out and he left abruptly, saying he couldn't train me any more.”

“What happened?” He is immeasurably thankful that the concern in her voice doesn't cross the line into pity. He has never wanted any pity, but especially not from her. Yes, it had been difficult when Stick left, but he had endured. Just as he had before Stick. Just as he has continued to do in the years since.

“Well, we had a pretty significant difference of opinion when it came to caring about other people. I tried to show him that he was important to me, that I cared about him and hoped he cared for me back. In response, he called me emotional, giving me a speech about not making any real connections with anyone for fear of them getting in the way or putting me at risk- taking the focus off of the enemy and placing it on protecting the people close to me- and leading to disaster and pain for everyone in the end when those people were used as a way to get to me.”

He laughs bitterly and shakes his head at the memory of the conversation. And at his childish naïveté. He finds he has to take another drink to rid himself of the latter memory.

“But I was a ten year old kid who had lost the only family I knew less than a year before and who desperately needed someone to care about, someone who would care about me in return. He couldn't handle that responsibility, I guess. So he left.”

He pauses less for effect and more for a chance to swallow the old, familiar feelings of abandonment and loss that rise up in his chest whenever he remembers Stick leaving, but the timing seems to do nothing but enhance the tragic nature of the tale. Blind or not, he can see the understanding start to dawn on her- in the way her shoulders sag with the weight of this knowledge, the way she makes a pained sigh and hangs her head, the way her heart skips and then speeds, likely as her mind starts reeling and connecting dots about him and the twisted way he has come to view relationships. He pushes on before she can speak to that, as he would really rather put that part of the conversation off for as long as possible.

“As I got older, I paid little mind to what he had told me- tried to chalk it up to the crazy rantings of a sick old man- and went on with my life. And for a long time, I did. I forgot about the war and had little use for the fighting skills I had learned outside of using them for exercise. But then about two years ago I heard a little girl, maybe 5 or 6, crying in the dead of night. Turns out, she was being abused by her father. It went on for weeks, despite the calls I made to get her removed or to get someone to investigate. It was a block away, but her horrified sobs were so loud, so crystal clear, that they cut through the rest of the city noise like a knife. It was as if she were right next to me, begging me for help. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I could feel her terror and her suffering and it made me sick.”

He senses her wince at the description of the torture the girl suffered and gives her a moment to collect herself. He too takes a minute to calm himself, to rub a hand over his face to shake loose the memories of the sound of her cries.

“I had to do something and the system wasn't working, so I knew it would have to be something more … creative. All at once I remembered my training. I was fairly confident that I would be able persuade him to stop if I applied the right kind of pressure. So that night I dressed in a black hoodie, put on a black mask and… I became _him._  And it all just grew from there, until I became Daredevil."

She seems to pick up on the fact that he isn't finished, that he just needs a moment- or another drink- so she waits for him to continue, sipping her beverage and picking at the label to focus her nervous energy on something other than the twitching of her tongue as she fights to contain the questions that are threatening to overtake it.

“I never expected to see Stick again after the way we parted, but he showed up here looking for me last year, claiming the war was finally coming and trying to recruit me back to his side. I was furious at him, at his audacity and the way he expected me to let him back into my life, just like that, using a war I no longer believed in as his excuse. I told him as much- that I didn't want anything to do with him or his war- and when I told him to leave, he didn't take it well. We ended up fighting it out right here in the living room-”

Her eyes narrow and surveys the room as she hears this, opening her mouth to speak but he anticipates her question and beats her to it.

“Yeah- that was the time you came over after the ‘car accident’ and were afraid someone had broken in.”

She sighs and shakes her head as he continues.

“But he finally left when he realized he wouldn't be able to change my mind. I thought that was the last that I would ever hear of him or his supposed war, but as it turns out, that particular joke was on me.”

He huffs a bitter laugh and drinks again, pinching the bridge of his nose against the pressure that is beginning to build up in his skull from all of these stressful, difficult memories.

“How is that?” She is looking at him intently, he can feel it, surveying his expression- trying to decipher how he feels about all of this… ridiculousness.

The sigh he lets out is nothing short of labored, the unresolved emotion from the last few months stealing his energy and causing exhaustion and bleeding through his tone.

“In the end, not only was the war between the organizations real, but it practically showed up on my doorstep. I learned the truth about who all was involved and what the stakes were, and though I didn't want to believe it, eventually I didn't have a choice but to accept it and start fighting back. That was during the Punisher case, when I started to be more absent...”

He trails off, unsure of how to continue- how he’s supposed to explain how terrible he feels for what he’s done, how sorry he is. A beat passes as struggles with his guilt, a part of him wishing she would get up and leave because he knows, he _knows_ he deserves it. But, as is her nature, Karen surprises him with her strength and fortitude to carry on in the face of things that hurt. And if nothing else, she deserves that he do the same. So he tries. For her.

“... I hope you know that I am still very sorry about that.”

She huffs a conflicted sigh, running a hand through her hair. “I know, Matt. I know. But … wh- what about the woman?” She is looking down because she cannot find it in her to look him in the face for fear of what she will see there as he talks about … _her._

He exhales a long sigh, all of his breath leaving him, as he is resigned to the fact that this question was inevitable and can no longer be sidestepped. He closes his eyes as he speaks, as if in doing so he can shut out the terror that is gripping him at the thought that this might finally be the thing that makes her walk away. For good this time. The idea of it makes his blood run cold, but it's a risk he has to take.

“That was Elektra. She worked with Stick, was trained by him as a child too, though we didn't meet as children. She was here that night because she had been stabbed by a machete laced with poison in a battle the three of us had been fighting against the Hand. It was the closest place to bring her to perform the necessary procedures to save her life and neutralize the poison. She was still recovering when you stopped by.”

“Oh. She was injured. Right, okay, so … ” She bites her lip, fidgeting with the bottle in her lap and finally taking a big drink to bolster her nerve. “Did she recover?”

He grimaces at the question, aware of the intention behind it but knocked off balance by the way it hits him in the stomach, stealing his breath like no punch ever has. He drums his fingers along the arm of the chair as he answers to distract himself from how small his voice sounds.

“Yes. That time. But she wasn't quite so lucky in the end.”

“What happened?” She straightens, raising her head to look at him. He hears the genuine concern she has, the way her heart rate speeds incrementally- worrying for a woman she doesn't know and has every reason to dislike, if not despise. In any other circumstance he would admire her compassion, but right now it does nothing but make him hate himself even more than usual.

He goes to take another drink, but finds his glass is empty. With a long and labored sigh, he gets up and moves to the coffee table to pour himself another. But as he picks up the bottle, he considers it for a moment before setting the glass down and taking the bottle back to his chair instead.

She looks at him, a concerned frown on her face, though she says nothing, and waits for him to continue.

He can hear that her heart rate is still climbing, but the way she goes back to picking at the label of her beer bottle indicates she isn't angry- just worried, bordering on scared. He can't imagine what all about. If only she could hear his own heart beating out a matching rhythm- maybe it would help her to understand that he is just as scared as she is.

He takes a hefty swig from the bottle of whiskey, the back of his free hand coming up to wipe his mouth, and sighs as he settles in the chair. He leans back and closes his eyes as he prepares for the most difficult part of the conversation yet.

“Well, in a sick twist of fate, sh- she was the one the Hand was looking for. Because it turns out that Elektra was the Black Sky. She almost fell for it, too. Almost gave herself up to them- to be lauded as a god and used as their weapon. But in the end, the Hand …  well, they didn't get what they wanted.”

“What do you mean?” Her fingers have stilled but her heart is still hammering away. Yet he can barely hear it over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

He is silent for too long before he can answer, and he knows it, but it's so difficult to put into words- to admit the truth that part of him is still trying so hard to reject. Because if he tells her, if he says it out loud, it's really real. And he has no idea what that will mean. For either of them.

“She… uh, died. For me. She stepped into the path of a blade that was about to catch me in the chest and… she died.” He speaks softly with a voice that is uncharacteristically flat- as if he were discussing the weather instead of grieving a loss.

He hears her harsh intake of breath at the news and thinks she must suppress the urge to get up and come to him because he hears her shift on the couch. She is silent for a moment, seemingly trying to decide how best to comfort him. In the end she settles for something simple, though no less sincere. “Matt ... I’m so sorry.”

Unbidden, a memory flashes in his mind, a kind of inverse of the current situation- Elektra, lying in his bed, comforting him for losing Karen, for losing … practically everything.

_You lost today._

_It doesn't matter._

_You lost more than just the case._

_Yeah. I didn't lose you._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm not._

He knows now that it had been hyperbole, that all the conversation they'd had in the 48 hours in which she had been recovering, he'd been living in a state of magical thinking. Just like the moment in the stairwell before they went out to fight the Hand on that rooftop. All the pleas and promises were a desperate last resort in the face of death, a knee-jerk reaction to the thought of losing her- and in so doing, losing the one person he thought would ever understand his other side. A part of him had meant the words at the time, but upon reflection he realizes how narrow his vision was then, how hastily he was willing to walk away from all he had built for himself- the legitimacy of his life as Matt Murdock, his career as a lawyer, the two most important people in his life. All of the facets of the, arguably, better side of himself. He realizes too late that it had been a lot to lose and wishes he had never lost it in the first place.

The memory of the words he spoke so flippantly leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, and he chases it away with the stringent burn of whiskey. The sudden contrast of the two situations, past and present, makes him dizzy- like the floor has shifted under his feet- and it makes his stomach lurch with guilt and regret at the wrongs done to both of them. They both deserve (... deserve **d** ) better. And isn't that a coincidence...

_You don't know what I know. You deserve better._

With the floodgates already open, this other memory slips in easily. This one doesn't unsettle him, just makes his heart break a little more. He has a passing thought of surprise that there is anything left to break before thinking that she’d been wrong. She'd had it backwards, but he had never had the chance to tell her. And now he never would.

It occurs to him suddenly that maybe he was never meant for either of them- Elektra too wild and passionate to have been tied down to him and his way of doing things, putting herself in danger to prove to him that she could be better for him; Karen too good and determined, too compassionate and forgiving to have to put up with the hell he put her through. Maybe he truly wasn't meant to have a happy ending after all.

He wants to seethe at this realization, to rage and rail- to scream his throat raw and beat his fists bloody- as if with enough fury, enough wrath he could fight his way out of this feeling. This situation. This reality. The sudden pressure of his guilt is enormous and suffocating. Even being a good Catholic boy, he isn't sure he will be able to survive under its weight. And for what may be the first time ever, a part of him wishes he might not. And when he doesn't immediately disregard that possibility, he finds himself starting to spiral into a black hole of despair.

But he instinctively shakes his head, working hard to ignore the impulse to give himself up to the desperation before their conversation is over. He calls on his training to steady his breathing and bring him back to the present. He can wallow in his self-pity once Karen has left him, but he won't allow himself to do it yet. Not when she's, miraculously, still here, still waiting for the whole truth.

“... Well she, uh- knew the risks. She was trying to redeem herself, to prove to me that she could be good. And in the end, she did- by dying to save me and to keep the Hand from having their Black Sky.” He covers the shake in his voice with a large drink and focuses hard on the burn of it going down- a tiny measure of the punishment he is owed.

“... Jesus, Matt. I- I’m sorry.”

He hums in response but can't bring himself to say anything else. They drink in tandem, each waiting for the other to break the silence, which is becoming increasingly more awkward as they approach the elephant in the room, taking the last few steps toward that which they have been avoiding for months.

Her nerves get the better of her and she cracks first.

“So, uh- were you two … involved?”

He tries to maintain his poker face at the question, but he's not entirely convinced he pulls it off, even though he was expecting her to ask eventually. He tries to breathe through the panic that he feels rising in his chest, tries to prepare himself as he moves to the edge of the cliff and, finally, forces himself to step off in the abyss that awaits him as he tells her the worst of the truth.

“Yes-”

In an instant he hears her sharp exhale, hears her heartbeat accelerate, can practically taste the adrenaline coming off of her as her anger begins to mount. He knows he deserves every ounce of it, but if he lets her talk now, he doesn't think he'll get the chance to say all he wants to say. It's not that he is trying to escape her reaction, but she deserves the whole truth first and he's determined to give it to her, no matter how much it hurts or how much she comes to hate him for it.

“But, please- Karen... it's not what you might think. Yes, we were together. In college. It was just a couple of months when were young and reckless and painfully naive about love. And then we had a falling out and she just… disappeared. I didn't speak to her, didn't see her for the better part of a decade. Then she showed up here out of the blue asking for my help to take out The Hand a few months ago.”

“I see. So… did you get back together with her when she came back?”

“No. I wasn't …” His tongue is tied and he rubs the back of his neck as he takes a moment to settle himself and try again.

“I was angry at her for a long time for how she left. When she showed up and asked me for my help, I agreed that we would work together to fight The Hand, but it wasn't more than that… not really.”

“ … ‘Not really’? Wh- what does that mean?” Her tone is tight and strangled, mirroring the tension in the rest of her body as she works to stay as calm as possible and let him explain before she jumps to any conclusions-

“Nothing. I didn't- It's just that when she got hurt and almost died the first time, it scared me. The thought that I would lose her- the one person who knew what I did and didn't judge me for it- terrified me. For a brief moment I had this fantasy that we could be together as a team of vigilantes-”

But this is where she finally loses the fight with her control.

“But then she died, so you're stuck with me now?!”

“No! No- Karen, please. It's not like that-”

She slams her beer bottle down on the coffee table and stands at this, no longer able to contain herself on the couch. “Then what is it like, Matt? Were you still pining for her- all that time while I was waiting for you to get your shit together? While you shut me out and lied to me, over and over again?”

He stands too, trying to diffuse the situation- to make her understand- but she isn't wrong and his mind is in a panic. He can't put together a coherent sentence, and each time he opens his mouth and stammers, he senses her grow more and more furious.

“I wouldn't have… There wasn't … We weren't-”

“Right, I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there and take that as a yes. So tell me, Matt- why the fuck shouldn’t I walk out the door right now? Or, better yet, just tell me this- if Elektra was still alive, would we even be having this conversation?”

She stares directly at him, hands in fists at her sides, her gaze laser-like in its intensity and dares him to answer her. But he is frozen, stuck in a trap of his own devising and the words just won't come. He hangs his head and sighs, and she takes this as his answer.

She laughs, but it is a dark, biting, bitter sound and it’s all wrong coming from her. “You've got to be kidding me. You know what? Fuck you, Matt!” It comes out as a snarl under her breath as she stalks to the window and stares out at the bright billboard in front of her, crossing her arms. She glares at her reflection in the window pane as she focuses on breathing in order to calm herself down… and keep from punching him in the face.

The silence that falls between them is heavy- palpable and thick with raw emotions as they both struggle with where they stand with one another now. He hates it… except for the fact that with each second that passes, it's another second in which she doesn't leave. And that is so much more than he ever could have hoped for. And if she's still here, maybe that means that it's not over yet. At least not completely.

He sits back down, a sign of his resignation, and pinches the bridge of his nose as he gathers the last scraps of his courage to finish the conversation.

“Karen, you have every right to be angry. I know I can't do anything to change what has already happened, and I hate myself for all the pain I’ve caused you. I am so desperately sorry for all of it. There's absolutely no excuse for what I've done. But if you want a reason to stay- you deserve to know what happened and why… And you should know that I would always have wanted to have this conversation with you, regardless of what happened with Elektra.”

She rolls her eyes at him and huffs a perturbed sigh but makes no move to leave, so he assumes she has agreed to hear him out and jumps at the opportunity, before she can change her mind.

“First, you have to understand- there was something about her that brought out the worst in me- the darker, more impulsive and combative parts. Maybe it's because she had been trained to fight too. Or because she knew from the beginning of our relationship what I was capable of. I never suspected that, but one day she tricked me into showing her and when I did-”

He is powerless to stop the memory from surfacing though he tries. He really does.

_You got me._

_Get me back. Get me!_

It hits him all at once- all that he felt in that moment. The thrill, the passion, the exhilaration of finding his equal and letting loose the restraints under which he had spent years languishing. He shakes his head to clear the afterimage in his mind and laughs in a simultaneously wistful and bitter way.

“… She smiled and laughed as she met me blow for blow. And in that moment… God, it felt like coming home. Because finally- for once- I didn't have to hide who I was or what I could do. She saw me, all of me, and she accepted me completely. Including my dark side. Hell, especially my dark side. I can't describe to you how freeing that was- like finally being let out of the cage I had been in for nearly my whole life. And I loved that feeling. Almost as much as I loved her.”

He raises the bottle to take another drink, and maybe it's the effect of all the other whiskey he's had tonight starting to loosen his tongue, but right before he does, he mutters under his breath- an aside of sorts. “Maybe even a little more.”

But she hears it. She snaps her head in his direction, moving her angry gaze from the window to take in his expression. She is biting her lip, warring with herself as to whether or not she should continue to listen or whether she should guard against his honeyed words and walk out, once and for all. But the moment she hesitates, she knows deep down that he's won, that she'll hear him out at least.

“Look, I’d be lying if I said I didn't think of getting back together with her, that I didn't feel drawn to her due to the history we shared and the things I didn't have to hide from her. But it wasn't… she didn't…”

There is too much- too much emotion, too much extra white noise in his head- and he is struggling to make any of it into intelligible thoughts.

“She was like fire- brilliant and dazzling but destructive and dangerous. If you stood too close or tried to hold on for too long, you were bound to get burned. Eventually I learned, but …”

Heaving a sigh, he leans forward, setting the bottle on the ground. He takes his head in his hands- holding his temples as he puts his elbows on his knees.

“She loved me, but I sometimes I think she didn't love _me_ quite as much as she loved _him.”_

His inflection on the last word is bordering on derisive and he nods in the direction of the table where his mask sits, silently mocking him.

“A part of me loved her for that- that she could appreciate the darkness in me. And match it. But mostly I loved her for who I thought I could be with her. And for who I hoped she could be with me. I loved the fairy tale version of us that I had my head- fighting evil, being together, and me not worrying for her safety or that she would reject the darker parts of me. But I …”

The words get stuck on his tongue, as though the thoughts behind them are only just solidifying in his head after weeks and weeks of hiding, just out of reach, in the shadow of denial.

“I fell in love with the idea of her, the idea of what a relationship with her could be like. One in which I could be accepted for being the Devil. But not necessarily one in which I could also be me- Matt Murdock. The me who vehemently disagrees with the taking of any human life and who desperately wants to believe in the law, in truth and justice. The me that has… well, maybe, _had_ other people to care about. And I know now that I don't want to be one or the other. I want to believe- no. I _have_ to believe that I am both sides at the same time. And if I'm ever going to be able to be in a relationship with someone, it will be with someone who can accept and love both.”

She considers him, drumming her fingers along her other arm as she thinks. She may not have special senses to gauge his heartbeat, but she is fairly certain he's being honest.

She hesitantly moves back toward her seat on the couch- indicating that they aren't done. Not yet. But on the way, she pauses and moves toward him. He holds his breath as he waits to see what she will do and lets out a strangled sigh of relief when she bends to pick up the bottle sitting on the floor in front of him. She takes the clean glass from the coffee table and pours herself a healthy double before passing the bottle back to him. As she does so, she takes his hand to guide it to the neck of the bottle, and they both ignore the spark that ignites when their hands touch… at least for now.

She crosses back to her seat on the couch, taking a drink and sighing as she settles in, crossing one knee over the other, leaning back, her hand in her hair as she leans against the couch on her elbow. She breaks the silence after a moment, her anger starting to fizzle a bit, though not gone quite yet. Her tone still has a biting edge when she speaks.

“Did you ever stop to consider the fact that she was the only one who accepted you because she was the only one who knew? You never even gave me the chance, Matt.”

He heaves a tired, heavy sigh as she voices the lesson he has learned the hard way over the last however many months.

“I know. And I'm sorry, Karen. I was just so afraid of chasing you away with my secrets, or putting you in danger, or burdening you with information you wouldn't want to have to protect. I didn't even consider the fact that I was taking the choice away from you by never telling you, never giving you the opportunity to decide for yourself.”

She closes her eyes, and a small part of her feels relief at his words because he seems to understand how he has hurt her and has made an earnest apology. The rest of her, though, wants desperately to belabor the point with him, to berate him for making their relationship so asymmetrical through the way he kept so much information privileged. But she knows that she can’t. Not in good conscience, at least… And not when she had been guilty of the same several times over. Once when they’d barely just met-

_You lied to me about having the Union Allied Pension file._

_I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, like Daniel Fisher, because of what I was doing._

After she'd shot Fisk’s assistant and was acting jumpy at the office-

_Karen, did something happen?_

_Yes. The world fell apart. Didn't you notice?_

And again when they had finally taken Fisk down-

_There’s been something in your voice- it’s been there for a while now. I thought whatever it was, whatever it’s been, I thought it would get better once Fisk was put away. But it hasn’t has it?_

_We put him away, yeah, but it won’t bring back Elena or Ben or erase what we’ve been through or what we’ve had to do to get here._

And that wasn’t even counting the _other_ things she was keeping from him, about what had really brought her to New York in the first place...

The memories stick like thorns in her mind, and she cannot find a way to fight with him about his decisions any longer when she knows that in a situation with the roles reversed… she would have likely done the same. To protect him. To protect Foggy. To protect herself. And to try to prevent anyone else from getting hurt.

For all his faults, he had been honest about one thing all this time…

_It's really simple, Karen. I just don't want you to get hurt._

Maybe it wasn't quite _simple_ , but she can't argue with the intention. Not anymore, at least.

And then there is the issue of falling in love with the idea of someone more than the person. She had a fairly typical experience with that in high school, falling for the idea of a boy who had actually turned out to be toxic for her. But upon closer inspection, she supposes that she may have been a bit guilty of this with Matt, at least initially. It was easy to be infatuated with him, having fallen for the two-dimensional image she held of him in her head when she still considered him to be little more than a paragon of the legal profession. But with all she has learned tonight, all of the context she now has, she sees a different picture of him. And aside from the anger she has felt (and still kind of feels) towards him, she thinks she likes this other picture quite a lot more. Perhaps, then, this is the reason she only just realized and acknowledged the depth of her feelings for him. For as much as she hates the secrets he kept, knowing why and understanding him as a whole person is what really clinched things for her. Knowing about his capacity for good and justice, his self-discipline and courage, his sweetness and devotion helps to balance his secrecy and deception, his pride and selfishness, his tendency toward self-sabotage and martyrdom. She does not love the choices he has made, but she can honestly say she loves him in spite of them. It is a complex feeling that accounts for all of his conflicting characteristics, an appreciation of his duality and humanity. She breathes a sigh of relief because she has her own contradictions and depth, and it allows them to be on a more level ground with neither "better" than the other. Finally.

She feels the last of her ire cooling, and in it's place she finds she just feels exhausted. She is hit by a sudden weariness as she considers the amount of time that she has spent angry at him since that night when she saw Elektra, the amount of energy that she has already expended on her fury. Not to mention the amount of energy that she's used keeping track of all of his revelations tonight. It's hard to believe that it has only been a couple of hours since he had walked through the door of the office with that paper bag in his hands. She can't believe how much things have changed for her since 6:00pm this evening.

Yet as she sits silent, reflecting on their progress and working her way toward forgiving him, Matt is becoming increasingly frantic. He has misinterpreted her silence as rejection and finds himself suddenly pleading with her to hear him- to try to understand, to stay, to give him one more chance.

“Karen, you don't have to like it, you don't have to agree with me, but I'm asking you- can you at least see it? Do you have any idea what it's like to be so ashamed of a part of yourself that you’d lie to protect it at all costs? Because you're scared to death of the judgement and rejection you could face if the truth came to light. Have you ever been afraid to let someone in, even someone you lov- uh, r-really care about- for fear of what danger it might bring to them if you did?”

He's hoping she'll say something or somehow acknowledge his words, but she doesn't. She just sits there, thinking what he can only assume are unhappy thoughts. Several seconds of silence pass between them but to him it seems like hours. He slumps in his chair a bit and sighs as he does all that he can to try to repair what is left of their relationship.

“If you have any idea what that's like, I hope that you can appreciate the fact that those are impossible choices. Maybe I chose wrong, and I'll always be sorry for that, but I'm trying to make a different choice now. I'm done making decisions for you, done keeping things from you. You know everything now, or at least most of it, and I'm not trying to keep anything else from you. If you have a question or if you feel like you’re missing something just ask. And know that it’s up to you to choose what do about it all, where we go from here.”

She sits in the silence that follows for a few moments, considering his words, though she has basically reached her decision already. But she thinks she is completely within her rights to make him sweat for just a little bit more. At least until he seems to have reached his limit and is about to explode from the tension.

When she finally speaks, she only just masks her smirk so it doesn't come through in her voice. “Okay.”

He is dumbfounded by this response because it is so unexpected. “Wait, what? What do you mean? ‘Okay’ to what?”

She huffs an exasperated sigh because she isn't quite sure how to explain to him what she is feeling, as evidenced by her simple response in the first place. But she does her best, thinking as she speaks. “‘Okay’, I accept your apology. ‘Okay’ because I believe that you have been completely honest and will continue to be if I ask anything else of you. And... ‘okay’ because I may know what it's like to fall in love with the idea of someone more than the actual person.”

“What, really?”

“Yes. I can't say that I've ever been in exactly the same position as you, but you were right- I have some idea of what it's like to protect someone from the truth, and to protect yourself from being rejected. I can't judge you for that. And even though I don't love the choices you made with Elektra, I can understand why you did what you did. And honestly, I'm too tired to be mad anymore. I've spent long enough  feeling that way."

He continues to sit quietly, mouth gaping in shock and disbelief at how _well_ she is taking all of this. He tilts his head, listening intently to her vitals to read her level of honesty, and when he hears her calm, steady heartbeat, he has to pause for a moment to ensure that he is not hallucinating. He is amazed when he finds that he is not.

“But what about… him?” He nods toward his mask on the table behind her.

She tilts her head, regarding him and taking another drink of whiskey before she answers, a small smile in her voice. “What _about_ him? I mean, I get it. And I support you. So long as you don't get yourself hurt.”

He laughs in disbelief. “Really? That's it? You don't mind that I'm Daredevil?”

“Why would I? I was a fan since of his since beginning- or a fan of _yours,_ I guess. That's going to take some getting used to. But you know I always believed in what you did in the mask. Especially when you rescued me from the assassin in my apartment. And when you rescued all of us hostages from that warehouse.” She frowns suddenly, as something occurs to her. “Thanks, by the way. I never had the chance to say it before, but I am so grateful that you were there when I needed you. Both times. Even if I didn't realize it was you.”

He shakes his head as if to dismiss the kind words. “You don't have to thank me, Karen. I've always just wanted you to be safe.”

She straightens and looks over at him. “ I know.” She frowns again as another memory comes to the forefront of her mind. "I think I owe you an apology.”

He squints at her in confusion. “For what? I can't imagine what you have to apologize to me for.”

She sighs, leans forward on the couch, and places her whiskey on the table before she starts fidgeting with her hands in that classic Karen way. “Well, it turns out I was wrong. This city needs heroes, including you. Especially you.”

He looks down at that, chagrined and unsure of how to respond. He finally mutters a soft “thank you,” and takes another sip of whiskey. Suddenly he realizes how much time has passed as they have been talking and remembers that it's nearly time for him to go be the vigilante in question.

“And, uh, speaking of heroes… it's getting late. About time for me to go patrolling.”

She is immediately fascinated by this idea. But then she remembers what day it is, and her brow wrinkles in confusion. “On Christmas Eve? Really?”

“You never know when someone is going to need some help. And unfortunately, criminals don't usually take vacations from their sordid activities just because it's a holiday.” He gives a sarcastic laugh as he stands, returning the bottle of whiskey to the table and turning to his right.

She watches him walk across the room, crossing toward the far wall where he starts fiddling with a lock that protects two large doors she hadn't ever really noticed before. This piques her interest.

“What's in there?”

“Well, I did say you could see the whole suit if you wanted. And I’ll need to get dressed soon.” He opens the lock and removes it from the metal latches. With a measured breath, he opens the doors.

Curiosity propelling her forward, she gets up and watches from behind him as he takes a trunk out from the closet space and kneels to open it. She watches with rapt attention as he reaches to take out the top tray before she mindlessly puts a hand on his arm, halting his movement.

“Wait, was this your dad’s stuff?”

He has to work to repress a shiver because she is unintentionally so close and is speaking over his shoulder, the air from her voice tickling his neck and the touch of her hand almost burning him through his shirt. He sets the tray back down and moves subtly to the left, giving her some space as he offers her the chance to look at the trunk’s contents.

“Yeah. It's all that I have left of him. Sometimes I'll get it out and just touch it and try to remember watching him in the ring- or later hearing him, feeling his energy, smelling the sweat and blood in the air.”

A small, sad smile breaks across her face as she runs her hands over the silky fabric of the robe.

“‘Battlin’ Jack Murdock’, huh? Was he any good?”

He chuckles softly at that. “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of ‘good’. He won sometimes, but what he was really known for was the fact that he could take a punch like a son-of-a-bitch and still get back up. And he always got back up.  Always lost on his feet. He had this strategy when he was outmatched- he’d wait until he had worn his opponent down, always getting back up and making them work harder until he backed them into a corner, and then he'd let loose. And damn, could he punch. Hard.”

She smirks as she picks up a stack of pictures and takes in the way he resembles his father. In more than just his looks. “That sounds suspiciously like someone else I know…”

He frowns and heaves a weary sigh. “Yeah, well, our family had a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood back in the day. My grandma used to say- ‘Careful of the Murdock boys. They got the devil in ‘em.’ I didn't used to think that applied to me, but now…”

She can see that something about this comparison is bothersome to him. She doesn't understand why, and wonders if he resents his alter ego’s name and the image that the press has painted of him. Perhaps it never occurred to him that he would become a media sensation, as he only ever wanted to help people. She wants to ask about that but knows this isn't the time. But she will eventually. For now she gives him what reassurance she can.

“Well, no matter what kind of ‘devil' you've been called, I know there are lots of people out there who consider you to be more of an angel than anything.”

He is not entirely sure how he wants to respond to that, so he works to keep his face carefully blank, but he can't help the tension that builds in him at the effort that it takes to attempt to remain calm and unbothered.

She is close enough to notice, though, and as she feels his mood change, she decides to try to steer away from this conversation for now. She returns her focus to the contents of the tray, the photos she has been studying. “What happened? I know you said that he passed away, but how?”

He sighs and picks up the robe. He runs his fingers along the lettering and seams, as if he is drawing strength from the garment. In a way, he supposes, he is. He feels like the best way to honor his dad’s legacy and what he's learned from him is to never give up. But he's battling an urge to escape from this conversation. It's not that he doesn't want to tell her, but he is not convinced that he has the emotional energy or the time to have it now, after everything else tonight.

“I’d be happy to yell you, but… maybe not tonight. It's a bit of a long story and I really should get out there soon.”

She looks down, immediately feeling embarrassed. He couldn't have been more gracious in the way he shut down that line of questioning, and he has done more than his fair share of explaining tonight. She doesn't want to scare him away from ever talking to her again by pressing too hard. They can continue this conversation next time. And, it's so nice to believe that there _will_ be a next time.

“Oh, of course. It's getting late anyway.” She puts the photos back and watches as he reverently folds the robe and places it back on to of the contents of the tray. She can't help but comment as she watches the tormented emotions on his face as he does.

“I’m sure he'd be proud of you, Matt. And not just for being a lawyer.”

He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. “I'm not so sure about that.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, and edged with bitter self-reproach. He gives the robe one final touch and moves as if to pick up the tray. But before he does, she touches his shoulder and he stills, tilting his head in her direction.

“Well, regardless, I'm proud of you.”

He stares blankly in her direction for a moment, before a slight smirk curls one side of his mouth up. But she's not paying attention to his mouth; instead she is watching his eyes, which have turned glassy. She catches sight of a tiny tear as it trickles down his cheek, and working on pure instinct, she uses her free hand to reach out and brush it away.

As he feels her hand make contact with his skin, he can't help the way his exhale borders on a sob or the way that he leans into her touch. He closes his eyes, and swallows the lump of emotion in his throat. With a shaky breath, he opens his eyes and looks in the direction of her face. “Thank you, Karen.”

She knows that he is thanking her for more than just this one reassurance. She beams at him and slides her hand down his arm to take his hand in both of hers. “You're welcome. Now, don't you have some armour to put on?”

She is hoping to make him laugh, to change their course toward less emotional waters, and she is successful. He chuckles and smiles back at her. “Ah, so that's why you're still here.”

It's her turn to laugh now, a bright, melodious sound that makes his heart swell. She shrugs her shoulders playfully. “I was promised a show.”

He bites his lip as he feels his cheeks flush without his permission. He doesn't want to think about how the thought of her seeing him as Daredevil makes his stomach do flips. He attempts to distract them both by busying himself with finally removing the top tray from the trunk, thus revealing his suit. His plan works and her attention is suddenly riveted on the gear he begins to remove piece by piece. “Well, I hope I don't disappoint.”

She is fascinated, watching him intently as he gathers all of the pieces into his hands and gets up. He takes a few steps toward his bedroom, but pauses as he still feels her staring at him. He turns back to her, a barely contained smile on his face.

“Uh, I'll just be a minute…”

This seems to break her trance, interrupting her wild imagination, and she blinks rapidly, suddenly aware of the way she has been staring while she thought… many things. And not many of them wholesome. She blushes brighter than she has so far tonight and brings a hand to her mouth as she looks anywhere but at him. “Right, sorry- sorry. I'll just, uh… wait over here.”

She stands and walks back toward the couch, standing with her back toward him, her hands on her hips.

He chuckles under his breath and turns back toward his bedroom.

She waits for him, rocking back and forth on her feet and playing with her hair, still a little chagrined. She blows out a long exhale, and laughs at herself. She wonders if he can see through her after that little display, but after a few moments of consideration, she decides that maybe it's alright if he does. She never stopped having feelings for him, even when she was angry with him. And now that she knows the whole story and they have begun to clear the air, maybe they can somehow find their way to a place where they could start a relationship again.

But before she gets too carried away with this train of thought, she hears him opening his bedroom door and walking back into the living room. She resists the impulse to turn around immediately, and instead, walks to the kitchen table to retrieve his mask. By the time that she has it out of the paper bag and in her hands, he is standing behind her. She hesitates for a moment before turning slowly toward him.

“Well, what do you think?”

She takes in the sight of him, clad in the red and black suit which has kept him protected from god knows what over the last months. She smirks and shrugs at him. “I've gotta say- it's a definite improvement from a single layer of black polyester… at least in terms of safety.”

He tilts his head, raising his eyebrows at her. “But not an improvement in all areas?”

She bites her lip and looks down for a moment, calculating. She could play it safe, or she could take a gamble- one that will either further them on their journey toward the possibility of a new relationship, or embarrass them both in a big way. With a deep breath she decides she'll take the gamble. Things have gone surprisingly well between them so far this evening, and she hopes that their luck can hold out just a little longer.

“Well, I’m glad it will keep you from getting hurt, but I’d be lying if I said I liked the look of this one quite as much as the all black… skintight version.”

He feels a flush travel up his neck and he opens his mouth only to close it a moment later as he has no idea what to say in response. He listens to her heart, her breathing and finds that though she appears calm on the outside, her heart is pounding. He realizes that maybe this is her olive branch, her way of showing him that they are okay, at least for now. It's not necessarily a commitment or a declaration but it's an invitation- an open door which she is allowing him to walk through. He decides he will take whatever she can give him, however long she can give it.

He allows a slow smirk to crawl across his face. “Well, I do still have the other set, for... emergency situations and personal use.” He hears her heartbeat speed incrementally as he speaks. But he backs off a bit because he doesn't want to push too hard or too fast. And considering everything, she should probably get the final say with setting their terms for a while. “But at this point I have a reputation to protect. Can't be out there without my signature suit and hood. People might forget who I am.”

“I'm pretty sure that's not possible.”

They chuckle together and he revels in the way their voices blend in a beautiful harmony. He has missed her so acutely, and he hopes he will get the chance to tell her. Not tonight, but maybe some day soon. He smiles brilliantly at the thought as he reaches out for the mask that she still holds in her hands.

She smiles back as she takes a step closer and hands it to him. As she watches him put it on, her breath catches because she suddenly remembers the last time she was this close to him while he was in this suit. When she had finally started to wonder about _him._

_You’re okay?_

_Better. Now._

The memory hits her full force, dredging up the adrenaline and shock, the tension and the spark that she had felt with the mystery man. Knowing that it was Matt all along makes her knees want to buckle as she starts melting from the inside out. She leans in close, putting her hand back on his chest where he had been injured before, partially for balance and partially to re-live the memory. She fixes him with an intent stare, memorizing the contours of his face, the shape of his lips below the mask.

“Take care of yourself out there. There are people who are counting on you to come home in one piece.”

His heart begins to hammer as she says it. He can't help but take the bait she has set for him. “Hmmm. ‘People’ or a specific person? Maybe you?”

The beating of her heart is so fast and hard she wonders briefly if he can actually make out the words that she feels it is singing to him. If he could, he'd hear a loud and clear ‘yes.’

“And if it was?”

He leans in and brings his hand up to cup her face, an echo of the gesture he made that night in the warehouse. He hears her heart stutter and hears his blood rushing like a raging river in his veins. “I'd tell you not to worry because I know exactly what I am fighting for, and I understand the stakes. I don't plan to lose you again.”

Her heart clenches at his words and she looks up, searching his face for a moment before doing something that she has spent more timing fantasizing about than she would like to admit. She brings one hand up to his cheek in a gesture that mirrors his hold on hers and leans in, kissing him. He takes a moment to process what is happening because his brain seems to short circuit at the press of her lips to his, but when he does, he kisses her back, leaning into her and bringing his free hand up to tangle in her hair. The movement stirs up the smell of her shampoo, the smell of _Karen,_ and he sighs into her mouth. She gives a pleased hum in response and kisses him with renewed fervor. After a moment, she reluctantly pulls herself apart from him, but she doesn't go very far.

She clears her throat as she dusts invisible dirt from his suit and attempts to regain her composure. “Sorry, but you have no idea how long I've wanted to do that.”

He chuckles and the sound is light and happy in a way that it has not been for months. It fills her heart with joy to think she helped restore some of that happiness.

“To regular me, or to _this_ me?”

She's glad he can't see her expression, though the fact that he can feel the blush on her cheeks is bad enough. “Both.”

He has to use all of his considerable willpower to not let his brain go down a wildly inappropriate path at her confession that she has thought about him at all, but particularly in his suit. Rather than banish them all together, though, he files those thoughts away for the future, just in case he ever has the privilege of needing them again. With a soft smile, he gently caresses the side of her face. “Well, here’s hoping it’s not the last time.”

She bites her lip and smiles shyly. “I certainly hope not. You still owe me dinner, after all.”

He laughs heartily at this and takes her hand. “I think I owe you many dinners, actually. Possibly even all of them for the rest of eternity.”

Her heart jumps at that. She knows he meant it as a joke, but the idea worms its way into her head and she finds that she really, _really_ likes it. It gives her hope, making her feel lighter, more vibrant than she has felt in months. She thinks she could get used to feeling like that. But she doesn't want to play her hand too soon.

“Well, as nice as that sounds, maybe we should take this one step at time. At least for now. So, let's start with dinner tomorrow and go from there. And I'll take the remainder of your offer under advisement, Counselor.”

His has to internally chastise himself for allowing his mouth to run away without his consent, and his pleased expression at her acceptance of his offer is only a fraction the elation and relief he feels in his chest. She’s right, anyway. They shouldn't go rushing into anything, no matter how comfortable and easy things are becoming between them again. “It's a date, then. What do you say- Marcello’s? 7:00pm?”

“Perfect.” She squeezes his hand and backs a few steps away, moving toward the door. “Well, I suppose I should go. Let you get to Daredevil-ing."

He huffs a laugh as she reaches for her coat. After she has it on, he steps closer, picking up her purse and holding it for her as she puts on her scarf. When she is finished, she reaches a palm out to him. He hands the purse to her, a part of him sad to see her go and terrified that he’ll never see her again. Because if there's one things he knows to be true about himself, it's that he is the center of entropy in the universe.   

_I have this incredible ability to bring disaster to the best things in my life._

He tried to tell her before, but now she's seen it firsthand. But here's hoping this may be the first step toward breaking that pattern. And what better way to start than by keeping her out of harm’s way?

“Do you mind if I follow you home, just to be sure you get there safely?” She is walking down the entryway toward the door when he asks.

She stops and turns back toward him. “Gonna keep me safe from all the danger out there?”

He gives a comically emphatic shrug. “Someone has to. You have a knack for attracting it.”

She rolls her eyes (for her own benefit, she belatedly realizes) but her tone is playful. “Speak for yourself.”

“Point taken. But you know now that I wasn't lying when I told you that I have a special talent for bringing disaster into the good things in my life. I don't want to include you in that. And for tonight, this is an easy way to prevent that from happening.”

She squints at him for a moment, considering. “If I say no, are you going to do it anyway?”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck in defeat. He had almost forgotten how well she could read him. “Probably. But I'll feel less guilty if you just agree.”

She chuckles softly at him. “You're _so_ Catholic.”

He can't help his answering laugh and the smile that follows. “What gave it away?”

He is smirking at her with that look that he has- the one that first got her hooked on him and she finds herself once again contemplating the existence of a higher power who may be more benevolent than she had ever suspected because she can't help the feeling that this is _right_ and might just work this time. Funny how a little honesty could go a long way toward a second chance. Which reminds her about the truths she still needs to share with him. She makes herself promise that she will tell him soon. And she will. She will extend to him the same courtesy he has shown her by telling her his secrets, and then she'll pray to this new-found God that Matt is able to be understanding and forgiving too.

But why let a thought like that ruin the warmth in her chest right now? She had been serious about taking it a day at a time and for good reason. And as a show of good faith, she'll let him have this small comfort. If she just so happens to kind of like the idea of Daredevil himself prowling around above her on rooftops, read to kick the ass of anyone that threatens her, that's just a bonus.

“If it will make you feel better, knock yourself out.”

He sighs in relief. “Thank you. Go ahead and lock the door behind you. I’ll take the scenic route.” He backs toward the stairs to the roof access and she turns back toward the front door. But just as she reaches it, he calls to her and she stills, hand on the doorknob.

“Karen, I just wanted to say… thank you. Really. From the bottom of my heart. Just-- thank you.”

It's totally unfair how easily he can melt her in so few words. Her mind is racing, trying to find a fitting response, a way to tell him that he never needed to worry, that she is just so glad that he finally told her the truth and that they can start to move forward with whatever they are going be, but she's coming up blank. Then, a flash of memory reminds her of an exchange they had months ago. The circumstances were much more grim then, but it still feels like a fitting response.

“For which part?” She has a knowing look on her face that he can imagine thanks to the lilt in her voice as she speaks.

He gives a shake of his head as he too remembers their previous exchange. “All of it, pretty much.”

He's so unbelievably thankful that this situation is so different- that he's thanking her for her support and forgiveness instead of pleading for it. And that things are much more hopeful than they had seemed in that moment. He hopes never to return to that place again. And if tonight is any indication, they are off to a good start.

She smiles and turns the knob, opening the door. He calls to her one last time, just before she steps over the threshold.

“Goodnight, Ms. Page.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Murdock.”

With one last look back at him, she walks out and shuts the door behind her. As soon as he hears the door latch, he jogs up the stairs to the roof. He walks to the edge of the building and listens for her as she descends the stairs. As she steps out onto the sidewalk, she turns and looks up, searching for him in the dark. When she sees him, silhouetted against the fading light of the sky, she smiles and turns to hail a cab.

As Karen steps into the cab and drives off, he takes a deep breath and takes off running, preparing to vault onto the roof of the next building over. He lands in a roll and jumps up, never pausing as he smoothly transitions to a run so he can maintain his momentum and launch himself onto the following building. As his muscles work from memory, he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline that he always does as he maneuvers around the city. But this time he is also very cognizant of the fact that, for the first time in ages, he doesn't feel fear. No fear for his life. No fear of living. No fear of loss. Not anymore.

With a smile, he allows himself to consider the fact that maybe his new name fits him better than he originally thought. Maybe he doesn't perform motorcycle stunts, but he willing takes on the worst of the worst in New York City. And if a daredevil is someone who is fearless, what better name could there be for him- “the man without fear”? So, sure, as long as he can live without fear, he'll wear his title with a new-found pride. He will be Daredevil. Because he can finally say that he's not afraid of anything.


End file.
